In Storm and Shadow
by Idrelle Miocovani
Summary: Venara thought she understood everything there was to know about the world of Thedas. Magic, legacy, lore, politics... Turns out she was destined to be proven wrong. A collection of short stories and drabbles from writing challenges.
1. Magical Transit System

**A/N:** This is an archive for short stories and drabbles featuring the sarcastic, deeply flawed and deeply empathetic Inquisitor Venara Lavellan. All of these works are responses to prompts given through the Dragon Age Drunk Writing Circle on tumblr. Some prompts are sweet, some are tragic, some of them are humorous. Each chapter is a different prompt. Most of these were written with or after a couple glasses of wine, so they are very much spontaneous and unedited in nature. Most of Venara's stories are in conjunction with the events of _The Tempest's Shadow_ , but it is not necessary to read that to enjoy these short fics.

Aside from Venara, the collection features Solas, Dorian, Sera, Vivienne and other DA characters. The main pairing is Venara x Solas.

Rating is for language and some mature themes in some chapters.

Thanks for reading!

* * *

 **Magical Transit System**

"Even if it were possible—"

"I'm not saying that it is—"

"The amount of magical energy required—"

"I'm saying that it could be!" Venara shouted. "Creators, Dorian, do you not understand the concept of a theoretical argument?"

Dorian sighed. "I can't believe you just asked me that. You do remember I assisted the man who took the theoretical concept of time magic and made it practical?"

Venara's shoulders sunk. She tossed a sour look over her shoulder at Dorian and continued on her way. They were halfway down the stairs between the library and the rotunda. An hour ago they had been tucked away in Dorian's nook in the library, calmly discussing the long-term effects of reliance on spirit magic when the conversation had taken an abrupt turn into the realm of magical teleportation and became a competitive tête-à-tête .

"Fine," she said. "Do you not understand the concept of a _friendly_ theoretical argument?"

"Haven't you heard? There is no such thing as friendly when it comes to academics," Dorian replied smoothly. "Particularly when there is a theory to disprove."

Venara let out a frustrated grunt and practically jumped the remaining steps. She burst into the rotunda and gave a quick passing wave to Solas, who stood abruptly to greet her only to find that she had already disappeared through the door to the battlements. Dorian followed, hot on her heels. They passed through Cullen's office and continued their climb, Venara desperate to reach the highest point possible so she could demonstrate the wild idea circulating her head.

When they reached the highest ramparts, Venara skidded to a halt, her fingers gripping the stonework as she gazed at the courtyard below.

"You have cast a Fade Step before, haven't you, Dorian?" she said.

"Yes," he huffed, panting from exertion as he caught up with her. "Once or twice. And I'm familiar enough with the principles. But what you are proposing is not even close—not even _similar_ —to a Fade Step! Instant magical teleportation is conceptual at best. To disappear from one place and appear instantaneously in another, over a great distance—"

"Is possible if the Fade is used to bend the space between the two points!" Venara interrupted.

Dorian shook his head. "No. That is how a Step functions—"

"I know that—I cast them more frequently than you do—"

"A Step is not the same thing as instant teleportation!"

Venara's eyes narrowed. "We're going in circles."

"Clearly." Dorian folded his arms. "Fine. What is your proposal?"

Venara tapped her fingers against the battlements. "I am going to teleport myself from this rampart to the balcony of my tower room."

"Yes. And how are you going to accomplish this?"

"By using the Fade to bend space—"

"How?"

Venara let out a frustrated hiss. "I just am. I'm going to _feel_ it out."

"That's some very sound reasoning, Inquisitor," Dorian said blithely.

Venara's eyes narrowed. "You just don't want to see me succeed, do you?"

"Oh, I'll be very impressed if you do," Dorian said. "I may even buy you a drink. But my ego will be shattered. You'll forgive me if I seek to protect its fragility at all costs."

Venara tried not to smile. "I'll try."

She turned back to the battlements. She gazed out across the castle grounds, at her tower soaring to the heavens. She saw the balcony. She envisioned herself standing there. She took a breath and pulled at the Fade—

The world shimmered about her.

"AAAAAAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!"

 _Thump._

From the battlements above, Dorian smacked his forehead with a hand. "Venara… I can't say I told you so."

He heard footsteps approach and turned to see Solas standing beside him.

"Instantaneous teleportation?" Solas asked as he looked down over the ramparts.

"Yes," Dorian said. "I told her not to—"

"She was never going to listen to you," Solas said. "I knew she was going to end up in that tree the moment she left."

"Of course you did," Dorian replied. "Should we assist her? I'm rather concerned."

Solas smiled. "She'll be fine. Embarrassed—but fine."


	2. The Game's The Thing

**The Game's the Thing**

"When you said 'game', this is not what I had in mind," Varric growled.

Solas sniffed, his frown difficult to disguise. "I will have you know, dwarf, that this _game_ —for it is indeed a game—was a traditional part of ancient Arlathan society and was popular amongst nobles and commoners alike. I have seen—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Varric interrupted. "You saw that in the Fade. You don't have to say it like you're a town crier, Chuckles." He picked up a twenty-sided die and rolled it about in his palm. "How do you win?"

"You don't," Venara said. "Well… at least, I don't think you do. Winning's not really the point—"

"If winning's not the point, then what is?"

"Not all games are played for money, Varric," Venara said.

"Hmph." Varric took a drink. "But all games _should._ How do you know what's going on if no one has any bets?"

"I was under the impression you would be amenable to this endeavour, Varric," Solas said. "As a write, this traditional game should be something your mind find attractive."

 _"Attractive?"_ Varric sighed and took another drink. "You've got a way with words sometimes, Chuckles. You're gonna put me out of business someday—Oh wait. You're not. Not unless all of Southern Thedas suddenly becomes obsessed with pretentious prose." Varric disappeared behind his tankard.

Solas watched him, his scowl deepening by the second. "I must admit, I am surprised by your attitude. I thought you, of all people, would be willing to participate."

Varric was too busy drinking to answer.

"It's actually an astonishing game," Venara said. "It's a lot of fun once you get going—"

Varric dropped his tankard and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Don't tell me," Varric he said. "You saw this in the Fade, too?"

Venara couldn't help but smile. "Yes."

 _"Lovebirds,"_ Varric muttered, rolling his eyes. "All right, you two. I'm gonna need another drink if I'm gonna get through this madhouse. I'll be back."

Varric stumbled off towards the bar.

Solas sighed and looked down at the stack of carefully labelled parchment he had brought with him. "I somehow get the feeling we've lost our only participant," he said.

"This game isn't for everyone," Venara said, touching his arm sympathetically. "I suppose for most of us we've seen enough dungeons and dragons to last a lifetime, we don't really need to playact fictional situations where we encounter them."

"You do realize this took me three weeks to assemble."

"Oh, I do. I watched every moment of it." Venara kissed him lightly, then turned, her eyes scanning the tavern for any potential victims she could rope into playing this game. She caught sight of the Iron Bull drinking with the Chargers and a smile leapt to her lips. "Solas," she said, "I think I have a solution."

"And that is?"

"Well, Iron Bull never could resist the word 'dragon' in any context."


	3. Her Heart on Her Sleeve

**Her Heart on Her Sleeve**

She stands at the edge of the precipice. Her back is straight, her head is bent, her hand—invisible from this angle—clasped in front of her. Her dark brown hair is loosened from its standard braids and falls, like a shadow, across her back.

He doesn't need to see her face to know what she is feeling. She has always carried every feeling, every reaction, from the most superficial to the deepest emotions, in every part of her body. It is one of the reasons she makes such an excellent target for the Orlesian court—those well-versed in slyness and deceit can see everything she feels before she even voices her thoughts. Her honesty makes her easy to manipulate by those who have made a living moving other people about as if they were pieces on a chess board, and yet that is one of the things he admires most about her. In a world where so many are forced to perform a version of who they are in order to please their social superiors, she is a breath of fresh air. She has always bravely moved forward knowing who and what she is without feeling the need to pretend to be anything else.

And he loves her for that.

"Venara," he says quietly.

She doesn't need to vocalize an answer. It is already there in shift of her posture, buried in the way she carries herself. She has raised her head, clutching her hands even closer to her core. She still does not look back at him.

"They're all dead," she says quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

He approaches her and places a hand on her shoulder. For the briefest of moments, she shudders at his touch, then allows herself to fall back into the comforting familiarity of his embrace. She leans against him, her eyes enraptured by what she sees beyond this mountain cliff.

"There was nothing else you could have done," he says.

"There could have been." She says it, but she doesn't sound convinced. She knows they were too late to save this village. She knows that even if events could have replayed themselves, that even if she had foreknowledge of the town's destruction, her squad would still have been held back by the mountain snows. This was a battle she could never have won—Corypheus' red templars would have always had the upper hand. "I should have tried harder," she adds softly.

"You can't save everyone, even when you intend to," he says.

"I should."

"The Champion of Kirkwall couldn't. Not even the Hero of Fereldan could—"

 _"But I should."_ Her words come quickly now, snapped out like cracking ice, her warm breath rising in the icy air.

He holds her for a moment, wrapping her tightly in his arms as he finally follows her gaze and takes in the sight that has haunted her from the moment she climbed up here. She is looking at the remains of the village far below, its banners torn and its tenements burnt down to their foundations. Blood speckles the snow, trailing the corpses that lie scattered among the caved and broken buildings. Inquisition forces move among them, trampling freshly fallen snow as they carry the dead to the pyre for a mass funeral. Chantry sisters walk amongst them, singing verses of their Chant in the dead air.

"This should never have happened," Venara whispers.

"No," Solas says. "It shouldn't have."

Venara finally glances up at him. Her face is raw, beaten by the harsh, icy wind. Her golden vallaslin, faded deep into her dark complexion, seems brighter in the white light of the snowy mountain path. It makes her scars run deeper and redder, burning reminders of what Corypheus has done both to her personally and to the world. Her green eyes shine behind thick, tear-frozen lashes, searching his face for some greater answer than the one he has given her.

 _I wish I had more to offer, vhenan._

He doesn't need to voice it.

She knows.

She always knows.

She takes his hand, the warmth of their interlocked fingers blazing in the icy air, and leans her head against his shoulder.

"Thank you," Venara says.


	4. Tis in the Music

' **Tis in the Music**

Venara adored her parents.

To her young mind, there was no one on the face of Thedas who was kinder, smarter and hardworking than Roshan and Isena. They were neither hunters nor craftsmen, nor were they hahrens tasked with the important duty of instructing the youth in the history and traditions of the Dalish. Nor were they magically talented, like Keeper Istimaethoriel and Venara herself, who was marked to one day become the leader of the clan. Despite all this, Roshan and Isena held a special place in the hearts of Clan Lavellan. They were the clan's poets and musicians. They sung the old ballads that recounted tales from the clan's distant past and they were responsible for creating new ballads to capture the deeds of the present.

There was no one quite like Roshan and Isena.

But when Venara was forced to play the same refrain of Roshan's current work-in-progress over and over again, her adoration was tested.

"Pa," she complained, nearly dropping her lute, "do you really need to hear this again?"

Roshan glanced at her, his brow still furrowed from concentration. "Yes."

"Why?"

Her father seemed genuinely startled by the ferocity in his nine-year-old daughter's voice. "Because it's not right. I need to hear it again."

"It's stupid."

Roshan's eyes widened. "You really think so?"

Venara bit her lip. "Not the music," she said quickly. "Never the music. It's the… it's the everything else that's stupid."

Her hands fluttered about rapidly, gesticulating to her words. Isena swooped in and picked up her lute before she knocked it over.

"Careful, little flower," Isena said. "I don't want to have to fix this one again this week."

"Sorry, Mamae."

"What's stupid, Venara?" Isena asked.

"The song," she said. "It's about nothing. And you're having trouble writing it, I can tell—you wouldn't keep me here forever if that wasn't right. I don't understand why this is so important to you. Just tell Istimaethoriel you can't do it, if it's so much trouble."

"It's part of the clan, da'len," Roshan said calmly. "And therefore, it's part of us. That's what makes it important."

"Pa, you're writing a ballad about a crabby old hahren who did nothing but drink mead all day, even when he wasn't supposed to," Venara said.

 _"Venara!"_ Isena chastised. "It is not polite to speak ill of the dead!"

"Well, it's true!"

Isena opened her mouth to continue her reprimand, but Roshan gave her a significant look. He set aside his lute, crouched down before his young daughter and took her hands in his.

"You didn't know Hahren Ethrell well," he said. "You are too young. To you, he was never a man of great importance or great deeds. But he _is_ remembered fondly by many of the clan. And it is our duty to remember him in our own way, as we would any of our hahrens or Keepers. Whether we like it or not, whether we have the inspiration or not, this ballad _must_ be written."

Venara paused. "I… suppose so."

Roshan nodded. Isena passed their daughter her lute, which she took reluctantly, but without refusal. Roshan smiled and nodded. "Shall we try again?" he said.

Venara placed her fingers on the strings. "Yes, Pa."


	5. Of Swans and Snails

**Of Swans and Snails**

From the moment Venara crossed the gates into the heart of the Winter Palace, things had not gone according to plan. She had spent the first hour of her evening being verbally accosted by the frivolous nobles who walked the gardens. First she had been being mistaken for one of the palace's many elven servants, then she had been mistaken for an elven courtesan, and then, after ripping off her mask (not a loss in her mind—the thing itched horrifically) and angrily gesturing at her vallaslin, she had caused a panic when the nobles she had confronted thought she was a Dalish agent sent to murder them.

Despite her elegant gown and her Inquisition regalia, the Comte de Bordelon's portrait had done its work. The dafter members of the Orlesian aristocracy were convinced that Venara could not be Inquisitor Lavellan unless she looked like that fucking fiasco of a portrait.

Thankfully, that was resolved once she and her associates were announced to the Empress.

Unfortunately, that meant she was waylaid with a thousand and one questions mocking everything from her appearance to her heritage. It made her task of hunting down a Tevinter assassin an absolute nightmare.

By the time dinner was announced, Venara was legitimately considering dramatically storming from the palace and leaving the Empress to her fate. Corypheus could have Orlais. She certainly didn't want it.

The dining hall was a large chamber connected to the ballroom. Like most of the other rooms in the palace, it was laced with marble, silver and gold. Large, gilded paintings of royal hunts and famous scenes from popular Orlesian folklore decorated the walls. Crystal chandeliers descended from the ceiling, bathing the room below in a warm glow. At the far end of the hall, beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows, sat the royal table on a raised dais. It was here that the Empress, Grand Duke Gaspard and Ambassador Briala were seated. Several more tables of carved oak sat in different quarters of the chamber. Each seat was set with a series of heavy porcelain plates and bowls, crystal goblets for wine, and a set of golden dining utensils that, when placed together in a row, would probably take up at least two feet of space.

Upon entering the hall, Venara was lead to the table closest to the dais. The servant left her as she froze, gawking awkwardly at the table settings. She was the only member of the Inquisition to be seated there. She would be surrounded by unknown Orlesian nobles for the duration of a seven-course meal without insulting anyone by using the wrong fork.

The panic immediately engulfed her. She shoved it down with difficulty.

Creators help me if I don't end up setting them all on fire…

"Your seat, my lady?" a familiar voice said.

Venara turned, mouth open in shock. "Solas! What are you doing here?"

He shrugged and gestured to the gilded chair (why was everything gilded in this place?!) he had pulled out for her. "I am your elven servant for the night."

Venara rolled her eyes. "I don't care how they introduced you. You don't have to follow their rules."

"No," he said, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "But I wish to. Besides, you could use the support as you venture into the lion's den, I believe. Would you allow me that honour—at least for tonight, my lady?" he added, placing one hand behind his back and bowing slightly at the waist.

It was the most proper bow Venara had ever seen.

"You're ridiculous," she said.

"Of course I am, vhenan," he replied. You never fail to remind me of that. Shall we?" He straightened and gestured to the chair.

Venara nodded graciously and, playing the exaggerated part of a titled lady, she demurely pushed her skirts out of the way and sat down primly. She raised an eyebrow as Solas pushed in her chair and withdrew to stand behind her.

As the rest of the table was seated and dinner began, Venara was quite glad to have Solas (literally) at her back. Even though they did not have much of a chance to speak, the opportunity to give him snide glances whenever one of her dining partners said something particularly unobservant, foolish or ignorant took the burden off her shoulders. His presence at her side calmed her, and she faced the aristocrats with a gracious smile and polite (albeit slightly stilted) small-talk. She smiled through the veiled jibes at her level of education and political status. She even managed to forgo contemplating dropping a magical lightning storm on their heads—particularly the head of a noblewoman in a swan mask who was clearly upset at having to share a table with a Dalish elf, Inquisitor or not.

Venara thought Josephine would be very proud of her.

And then her façade broke.

"What… is this?" she whispered at Solas as he placed a bowl of steaming…something in front of her.

"I believe it's a traditional Orlesian dish called the nesting roast," he murmured back.

"Yes… but what is it?" Venara said, eyeing the monstrosity on her plate.

"Quail nestled inside a pheasant, nestled inside a swan," Solas answered rapidly, the speed of his response suggesting he had been waiting to give her that reply.

"You did not learn that in the Fade," Venara muttered. "…Did you?"

"No," he replied, trying to hide his chuckle. "Fortunately or unfortunately, Orlesian delicacies do not frequently appear in the memories I visit. I learned it in the servants' quarters. They're quite chatty about the kitchen drama. Apparently the Empress hired and fired eleven different cooks over the span of two weeks for this ball alone."

"Enthralling," Venara said. "How do I eat it?"

"Ah," he said. "I believe some research may be required."

"Oh, shut up," Venara whispered, trying not to laugh. Stalling for time, she grabbed her wine glass and sipped at the Antivan red, remembering to make a face as if she was judging its quality. She quickly glanced around at her dining partners, watching them carefully to see which utensils they used. She stared at them, then down at her plate, then back at them, then down at her plate.

She was completely lost.

"Solas…"

"You start with the second inner most fork and the fourth inner most knife."

"Really?"

"I believe so. Or maybe it is the third inner most fork and the second inner most knife."

"Do you know so? Dame Swan Mask is going to throw a fit if I don't take a bite soon—"

"Yes, she is turning a remarkable shade of red, isn't she?"

"Focus, Solas! Which fork do I use?!"

"I am so sorry, my lady," Solas said, raising his voice ever-so-slightly so Venara's dining partners could hear. "It is my fault that I forgot you were allergic to quail. I will remove this at once."

He whisked the plate away and Venara sighed with relief. She glanced across the table at the noblewoman in the swan mask. She tut-tutted and shook her head as she daintily tore through to the centre of the nesting roast. Moments later, Solas set a bowl of snails bathed in butter, garlic and parsley.

"Your replacement, my lady," he said.

Venara sighed in relief. "Thank you, Solas," she said, trying to sound as haughty as she could. She automatically reached out and grabbed a snail, cracking it open with ease and popping it into her mouth.

She froze.

Every noble at the table stared at her.

"Que faites-vous, Madame Inquisitrice?" Dame Swan shrieked.

Venara swallowed her snail. Slowly and calmly, she wiped her hands on her lacy serviette and gently leaned across the table. "Why do you stare at me so, madame?" she said, smiling angelically. "Ne saviez-vous pas que les escargots sont un plat traditionel parmi les Dalatiens? C'est comme ça que vous les mangez, n'est-ce pas?"

It was the first time she had spoken Orlesian in months, but her words were clear. Her smile turned into a grin as the nobles at her table stared at her in surprise for a good five minutes. Her grin turned triumphant when they, too, were served their escargots à la verchielle and none of them touched their glittering utensils.

* * *

 **(Crappy) French Translations**  
 _"Que faites-vous, Madame Inquisitrice?"_  
"What are you doing, Lady Inquisitor?"

" _Ne saviez-vous pas que les escargots sont un plat traditionel parmi les Dalatiens? C'est comme ça que vous les mangez, n'est-ce pas?"_  
"Did you not know that snails are a traditional dish amongst the Dalish of Clan Lavellan? This is how you eat them, is it not?"


	6. A Handful of Cookie Dough

**A Handful of Cookie Dough**

It was a very rare event for the Inquisitor to travel without the accompaniment of at least three companions. Considering the number of attacks by bandits, assaults by Venatori, near-death experiences at the hands of red templars, assassination attempts by the Orlesian court and incidents with local wildlife she had suffered, the Inquisition advisory council was under the impression that just about _everything in Thedas_ wanted Venara dead. They had unanimously concluded that everything in their power should be done to keep her safe when she left the protection of Skyhold's walls—which ultimately meant that Venara could be found wandering the Orlesian countryside with at least a dozen Inquisition soldiers at her back.

It made it impossible to get anything done.

Fortunately for Venara, someone else in Skyhold took as much offense to situation as she did.

Venara and Sera were on their way to the Emerald Graves to investigate an incident involving red lyrium smuggling (the rest of her usual companions were away on other assignments). One morning, Venara's guard awoke to find that all their breeches had been stolen and strung amongst the highest branches of the surrounding trees. While they worked to resolve their breeches-less situation, Venara and Sera made use of the distraction and disappeared in the woods with their weapons and packs in hand.

"Cullen's going to be so _pissed_ when he finds out," Sera snorted.

"Serves him right," Venara muttered. "I told him not to stick a guard on me."

They travelled quite far that day, putting as much distance between themselves and the Inquisition guard they found a place to camp for the night. They settled down in a little nook between a cluster of trees, not far away from a babbling brook. They quickly set about making a fire. Venara left Sera to her own devices, intending to search the forest for more firewood. When she returned, she found her elbow-deep in their only pot, mashing some kind of paste together with her hands.

Venara nearly dropped her firewood. "Wha—what are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" Sera said, grunting with effort.

"You tell me. I really don't know."

Sera blew back a piece of stray hair and grinned. "I'm making cookies."

 _"Cookies?_ Out _here?"_

"Yeah," Sera said, grabbing a handful of the paste (which Venara now recognized as cookie dough) and rolling it around in her palms. "Why not? If you can't make cookies in the middle of freakin' nowhere, you aren't really living."

"What about dinner?" Venara asked, eyeing the only pan they had brought with them. Sera had already coated it in some kind of oil and laid it on top of the fire.

"Cookies are food," Sera said. "We'll have cookies for dinner."

"Cookies _aren't_ dinner, Sera."

Sera blew a raspberry. "Bullshit! I saw you having pie for breakfast when we were in Val Royeaux, don't deny it."

"Fine, fine!" Venara dumped her pile of extra firewood at the edge of the clearing. "Cookies for dinner it will be."

Sera's smile nearly lit up the night sky. "Now you're talking."

Venara watched as Sera meticulously rolled out cookie dough in her palm and placed each little globe meticulously on the pan before pressing it down with a finger. Baking in the wilderness took hours and she wondered whether she should hunt while Sera fulfilled her cookie craving.

"Oi!" Sera said. "You _can_ help, you know. These cookies are for you, too."

Never mind.

Venara approached the pot and grabbed a handful of dough. She mimicked Sera, rolling the dough between her palms before placing it on the pan. They were rapidly running out of space.

"Where did you get the flour?" Venara asked.

"What? Oh, I brought it with me. You never know when you want to make cookies. Even though I'm kind of shite at it."

Venara stared at her, her palms squeezing dough together a little too forcefully. "You… brought flour with you… all the way from Skyhold?"

"Nah, don't be stupid," Sera said. "I lifted it from the last town we passed. I only got this idea three days ago. I thought, 'Well, if we're stuck out here searching for some stupid red lyrium carts with some stupid soldiers, might as well make it fun.'"

"We are here to finish a job," Venara pointed out.

"I know," Sera answered. "That doesn't mean it has to be all boring and serious all the time! Lighten up."

"I _have_ lightened up," Venara said seriously.

Sera scraped out a handful of dough from the pot. "Don't make me throw this at you."

Suddenly, there was a thunderous crack as an arrow flew out of nowhere and struck a tree behind them. Sera gasped and knocked over the pot. It flipped over several times as it rolled across the ground, dirt sticking to the fresh dough.

"Oh, bollocks," Sera said.

Venara and Sera leapt to their feet, grabbing their weapons. Venara threw a barrier around herself and Sera as a trio of red templars came crashing into the glade.

"It's the Inquisitor!" one of them yelled, raising his blade.

He didn't say anything else. Sera had already hit him with an arrow to the face. "You made me ruin my cookies!" she yelled, ignoring the dough caked on her arms as she nocked another arrow.

As she let the arrow fly, Venara summoned a lightning storm and shot it at the remaining red templars. Paralyzed in their tracks, one fell victim to Sera's second arrow. Venara's form flashed ahead, dispelling an icy aura as she flung herself towards the last templar. She reappeared at his side and, with a sweeping motion, felled him with her spirit blade.

As Venara turned and caught Sera's eye, a half dozen footsteps crashed through the woods. Venara gripped her staff, ready to spring forwards once again, but withdrew as she recognized the faces of her Inquisition guard in the flickering camp light.

"Inquisitor Lavellan!" the captain exclaimed. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

"No," Venara said. "The only casualty here was cookie dough. And some red templars. Really, you'd think they'd know trying to kill me is futile by now."

"You shouldn't have gone off on your own," the captain continued, still breathless from running. "My orders—"

"I don't care what your orders are," Venara said. "I will not be babysat by you. You can tell the Commander I said that."

The captain quivered. "Inquisitor, I'm sorry, but I—"

"Go back to Skyhold, captain. Sera and I can take things from here."

The captain saluted. "Yes, ser."

He turned and marched away, the flush in his cheeks barely visible in the low light.

"I see you got your breeches back," Sera said as he passed.

The captain paused and almost barked a reply at her, but thought better of it. He continued on, tromping back into the woods with his men.

"Did you want some cookies?" Sera called as they disappeared. "No? Good. More for us."


	7. What She Is

**What She Is**

Her thumb was bleeding.

Venara sighed, pausing momentarily as she watched the blood well up. It was the second third time that evening she had pricked a finger on the backing of her mother's earring. The gold was sharp, magically enhanced to prevent tarnish and keep it sanitized, a trick Istimaethoriel had used on most of the clan jewellery. Venara had enchanted this pair herself.

And now it was coming back to bite her. Like most things, these days.

"You don't have to do this," Solas said.

His reflection appeared in her mirror. Once again, he had entered her chambers uninvited, without knocking. This developing habit was unacceptable.

Venara stuck her thumb in her mouth and sucked on it. She would not stoop to turning around. "What are you doing here?" she asked after a moment, pulling her thumb free. The bleeding had stopped.

"I need to speak with you," he said. "If you refuse to speak to me in public, then I must find you in private."

"I have nothing more to say on this matter." Venara picked up her mother's earring and pushed it through the whole in her lower earlobe. She turned her head, watching the gold catch the light as she carefully folded the backing down. The earring shone warmly alongside its siblings—as she had seen them do so many times before, on her mother's ears. "Go away," she added as she gathered a panel of hair at the back of her head and began to braid. It was a six-strand braid, something her mother had done on her many times as a child, her fingers magically taming Venara's curls into something presentable.

From her mirror, Venara saw that Solas had not moved.

"Don't make me ask again," she said.

He let out a frustrated sigh. "It is stubbornness like this that brings you so much pain and trouble," he said.

"Thank you for the shining endorsement, Solas, that's exactly what I needed right now!" Venara hissed.

"Venara—"

"Nothing you can say will make me change my mind," Venara said. "I need to do this. I need to go. Clan Lavellan must be represented at the Arlathvhen."

"They do not want you," Solas said. "Why endanger yourself for those who have declared hatred for you? You have been exiled. You are no longer welcome—"

"They'll change their minds," Venara interrupted. "The High Keepers cannot deny one of their own."

"They can if they no longer count you among their number."

"I am Dalish!" Venara snapped, forcefully tugged her hair through its complicated weave. "I was born Dalish and I will die Dalish and they cannot take that from me!"

Her voice rung through her chamber, echoing in the arches of the rafters. As she spoke, she yanked too hard on her hair and let go in surprised pain. Her hands returned to the back of her head, searching frantically for the lost ends of the braid, but found only a curled, tangled mess. She slammed her hands down on her vanity so forcefully it rocked back and forth on the stone floor.

"I know, vhenan," Solas said. "I know."

She felt his hand on her back. Her gut twisted and she brushed him away. "No," she said, stepping away from him. "You don't. This is the one thing about me you have _never_ understood. If you did, we would not be having this conversation—"

Venara folded her arms protectively around herself and stormed onto her balcony. The cold mountain air pricked her face and she rubbed her bare arms for warmth. She rested near the balustrade, her eyes flickering over the courtyard below. She could see Master Dennett, laughing with one his stable hands as they prepared the horses for departure.

She heard Solas' footfalls on the stone. She glanced at him, her eyes squinting in the afternoon brightness. His hands were uncustomarily fidgeting with the leather band that held the wolf jaw-bone he always wore.

"You're right," Solas said. "I cannot understand, I am not Dalish. But I know what it is to be banished from the ones you called your own."

"Do you?" Venara spat.

He blinked and something in his expression changed. A hurt she had unthinkingly uncovered. Venara swallowed uncomfortably and looked away. Solas was gifted at masking his emotions, but every so often something in his façade would break.

"Sorry," she murmured, looking away. "That was uncalled for."

"There are other ways, vhenan," Solas said. "You are one of the People. You are the Keeper of Clan Lavellan, regardless of whether the Arlathvhen recognizes it or not. They cannot take that away from you as long as you call it your own."

Venara ran her thumb over one of her mothers' earrings. "I am the Keeper," she said softly, more to herself than to him. "I remember what is lost. They live on within me."

An image of her father's face and her mother's smile flashed before her eyes. She blocked the memories—almost six months on, their deaths were still too soon. Venara shivered in the cold air. A moment later, his arms were around her and she fell into the warmth of his embrace. She pressed her face against his chest and breathed deeply. The twist in her gut melted away and she felt a comfort that had eluded her for days.

"I was wrong to tell you what to do in this matter," Solas said, his hand pressed into her back as he kissed the top of her head. "I am concerned that in attending the Arlathvhen, you will risk your life for something that is fruitless. But ultimately it is your decision."

"Thank you," Venara murmured. Suddenly, her hand leapt to the back of her head. Her braid had fallen apart, becoming even more tangled than before. "Creators," she sighed. "I've ruined it."

"You can start again," Solas said, gently resting a hand against her cheek and raised her face towards his. "As with all things."


	8. Walking Ghost

**A/N:** Nella is an OC from Wycome, featured in later chapters of _The Tempest's Shadow._

* * *

 **Walking Ghost**

They were being hunted.

Part of her wanted to be done with it, to throw herself at the Duchess' feet and allow herself to be taken into custody. There would be no more running. No more chases, no more hunts, no more hiding. They would throw her and Eledin in prison, subjecting them to torture, questioning them on why they had infiltrated an impregnable city and what they had come here for… But it would all be so much easier. They would endure. They would last. And when their enemy's defenses were down, they would strike.

"Don't think like that," Nella's voice was saying. "You think like that and you're dead."

Venara's vision swam. She blinked and Nella's face came into focus.

She was sitting on Nella's bed in the Rose and Thorn, dazed from the evening's events. A surprise raid had flung all of Leath into chaos. Guardsmen had torn through the borough on the hunt for "Dalish spies", one of whom was notoriously marked by a green glow. Thankfully, no one had made the connection between the green glow and the Inquisitor's mark—Wycome was too distanced from Skyhold and southern Thedas to connect Inquisitor Lavellan to the rogue elven assassin haunting their streets.

Minutes before the guards reached the brothel, Nella had torn into her room and alerted Venara and Eledin. Rushing them to the back, she had been in the process of helping them escape over the balcony when guards had broken through her door. Nella had reacted immediately—throwing her curtains over her door, she had spun around and verbally laid the guards to waste, giving Venara and Eledin enough time to escape onto the roof.

Nella's voice carried. She was loud, she was articulate, she was enraged. She was also a very good actress. Venara supposed that years of working with clients had taught Nella to read people clearly and understand what to say to them and how. As she clung to the roof, her heart pounded in her chest, she feared the scenario below would take a devastating turn—it would have been all too easy for a handful of guards on a raid to take advantage of the men and women who worked at this establishment. But Nella, through the power of her words and demeanour alone, convinced the intruders that not only was there no one there, but that it was fundamentally ridiculous to believe that two elven spies would find protection at the most notorious riverside brothel in all of Wycome.

Once they were gone, Nella appeared on the balcony and quickly helped Venara and Eledin down before ushering them into the shelter of her room.

It was hours later now. They could still hear the screams around the borough as the raids continued. Eledin had disappeared into the alley—he needed time to himself, he said. Venara had to let him go. She knew he could disappear like a shadow, if he wanted to. He would be all right.

She wasn't sure if _she_ would be.

"Here," Nella said. She approached the bed, carrying a large bowl of steaming water and a towel. "You need to breathe."

"I don't—"

Nella put a hand on her back. _"Breathe."_

Venara nodded. She bent over the bowl and Nella placed the towel around her head. Venara soaked in the steam. It was all she could think about, all she could feel, for several minutes until it grew too hot. She pushed the towel away and came up for air, wiping away the condensation on her cheeks.

"Better?" Nella asked.

"I don't know."

Nella set aside the bowl. "Venara, you need to let it go."

"I could have fought them. I should have fought them."

"This isn't going to help you."

"Don't you hear what's happening?" Venara shouted. "Down the street, around the corner, to your friends, to your neighbours—you might have had the wherewithal to dispatch them, but what about the next woman? And this is all because they're looking for me."

"I hear it," Nella said. "I recognize it. I move on. You may be the reason for the raid, but you are not the reason this city is going to shit. You can't fight all of them. And if you turn yourself in, that won't stop the problems we're already facing. The best you can do is to do everything in your power to _stay on your path._ The sooner you realize that, the better."

Venara brushed damp hair off her forehead. "You're a harsh teacher. Do you know that?"

"I've had some harsh ones in my day," Nella said. "We all do. It seems you've finally found yours."

She stood up and stalked about the room, straightening a chair here, a pillow there. She was filled with the kind of energy that could barely be contained.

Venara pulled her knees into her chest and leaned against one of the bedposts. "Why are you helping us?" she asked. It wasn't the first time she had voiced this question. She had found an uncommon ally in Nella, and she found it baffling that anyone in this city was willing to help her. Though, as Nella had made remarkably care, her help came with a price.

Nella paused from straightening a pillow. Her fingers ran over the embroidery, her lips pursed in a frown. "Why do you need an answer?" she asked. "Isn't enough to know that I care?"

"I want to know _why_ you care," Venara said.

Nella glanced away, throwing her long black hair over her shoulder. "I _care_ because I believe it's the right thing do to," she said. She glanced at Venara, her eyes sizing her up and down. "No more questions," she added. "You should get some sleep. You're like a walking ghost."


	9. The Saga of the Frilly Cakes

**The Saga of the Frilly Cakes**

Venara had a lot of strange things happen to her during her time as Inquisitor. She had been thrown back in time, battled dragons, physically traversed the Fade... and received a hundred frilly cakes mysteriously delivered to her quarters in Skyhold.

No one had witnessed their delivery. No one could guess who they were from. There was no note, nothing to mark the very cake-obsessed personage who had kindly extended their dessert-minded thoughtfulness to Inquisitor Lavellan herself.

Leliana was convinced it was a trap. After she had checked, double-checked and triple-checked that there were no surprises hidden among the frosting, all she do was spread her hands and say, "I don't know, perhaps you should eat them?" in response to Venara's question of how to get rid of them.

Despite their decorative frosting, their moist, creamy texture, their elegant and unique designs, nothing could shake the fact that the last thing Venara wanted was a hundred cakes taking up space in her quarters.

She didn't need frilly cakes. She didn't _want_ frilly cakes. _She had no use for frilly cakes._

"What a mess," she sighed. Venara stood, hands on her hips, with her back to her balcony as she surveyed the heavy oak table that was overladen with the cakes. Josephine had stolen twenty-five for a soiree she was hosting, Leliana had whisked away another handful and Cullen had very politely asked for a single cake, a request Venara had been more than happy to fulfill.

She was down to sixty four.

"Maybe Sera could use them," Venara mused. "Play a game of pie-in-the-face, but substitute pies for cakes. The troops should get a laugh out of that, at least…"

"Ah, but they are so much smaller than pies," a voice said. "Certainly they would not have the same effect."

"Hi, Solas," Venara said without turning around.

"How goes the contemplation?" Solas asked.

Venara growled.

"That terrible?"

"What am I supposed to do with this many cakes?" she said, waving her hands in the air.

"I think," Solas said, "you're supposed to do what most people do and eat them."

Venara folded her arms. "And? What am I supposed to do with them afterwards? _Don't answer that,"_ she added hastily. "I misspoke."

Solas tried to hide his smile. He failed miserably.

"Have you had one yet?" he asked.

"What?" Venara spun around from her frilly cake contemplation. "No, no. I haven't."

"Then maybe this will be easier to rectify after you have one."

"I don't do frilly cakes!" Venara exclaimed. "They're so… well, _frilly!_ They're for nobles and Orlesians and aristocrats with nothing better to do with their time, who care more about what their food looks like than how nourishing it is—what are you doing?"

Solas walked past her and popped a cake into his mouth. It took him a moment to chew through it and the frosting went everywhere, but she could see the smirk in his eyes. He gently wiped the crumbs away and arched an eyebrow. "Well?" he said.

"Oh, fine!" Venara stalked over to the table, plucked a cake and shoved it in her mouth. She continued to grumble internally about the cakes, about the idiot who had delivered them, about the idiot who _made_ them, about… well… Maybe they weren't really an idiot after all… In fact, this cake was rather delicious… And it was perfectly textured, with the right balance between cake and frosting… And it was quite possibly the best thing she had ever tasted in her life.

"Oh," Venara said. _"Oh."_ She drifted towards the table again and quietly picked up a second cake. "Maybe I was… mistaken," she said, eyeing the cake fervently. It was a deep reddish brown, with a creamy white icing and it looked absolutely delectable.

 _Dear Creators, I hope this doesn't make me a fool or a hypocrite if I get addicted to these…_

The cake was divine.

She was flushing internally for how wrong she had been, but dear Creators, was that cake good.

Solas grabbed her wrist. "Venara, that's your third."

"Yes, I know. So?"

"So? Perhaps you shouldn't have more than three."

"Oh." Now that she thought about it, her stomach did feel a little queasy. "I'll take a break for now," she said, but not before quickly dashing frosting off the nearest cake with her finger. She stuck her finger in her mouth and closed her eyes.

 _Divine…_

Solas was laughing at her.

Venara cracked an eye open. "What?" she said.

"You were so adamant you wouldn't like them," he replied. "I've never seen you so certain about something since you insisted that trying Morvan the Under for smacking Skyhold's walls with a goat was a waste of time and resources."

"And?" Venara said. "I'm allowed to change my mind, am I not?"

"I made them for you."

"I don't have to resign myself to my first impressions, do I?"

"I made them for you."

"Is the Inquisitor all of a sudden tied to the first decision that springs into her mind—?"

"Venara." Solas caught her wrist and pulled her close. "I made them for you. I thought you could use something… frivolous."

His words hit her.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "You—but—you—" She cocked her head to the side. _"How?"_

He smirked. "Magic."

"You're not funny," Venara said, playfully pushing him away. She glanced at the cake-laden table, something bright and warm glowing in her chest. "I didn't know you were a baker."

"Neither did I."

"You are a very surprising person, Solas."

"Yes," he replied. "I know."

Venara grabbed a cake and held it out in her palm. "Do you want another one?" she asked, unable to contain her smile.

"I wouldn't mind if I did."


	10. Shards

**Shards**

The glass had shattered into thousands of pieces across the floor, crusting it with crystalline slivers that sparkled dangerously in the fading sunlight. A trail of sticky red liquid seeped into the floor, staining both rich marble and carpet. At first glance, it seemed as though something murderous had taken place in Josephine's immaculate greeting salon.

Perhaps something murderous very nearly had.

Venara stood in the centre of the room, her right hand curled tightly around the stem of a broken glass, the front of her shirt was spotted with red wine. Her dark brown hair, uncharacteristically loosened from its braids, hung around her shoulders in a tangled mess, her green eyes narrowed nearly to slits. The only sound in the small room was her breath—shallow, fast, barely containing her anger.

Anger directed at the woman standing across from her.

"Say that again," she hissed.

Mélisande Perrault was impassive. Her eyes did not stray to the broken glass, nor the shards on the floor. Her pale hands remained at her sides, her chin tilted upwards, her silver mask glinting in the room's warm torchlight. The last time Venara had seen her, she had been dressed in full armour. Now she was adorned in silks, satins and velvets, but she was no less iron-clad for it. Despite the gemstones on her shoes and the ornaments layered into her towering wig, she carried herself with the severity and self-importance of a commander of the city guard and an expert at the Grand Game.

"I find it surprising you did not hear me the first time, Inquisitor," Mélisande said. "Considering the state of your wine glass. That reaction does not happen by accident, no? Or are Dalish elves so savage that they go about destroying every mark of civility on a whim?"

 _Creators, I hate her._

"My hand slipped."

Mélisande nodded at the scattered shards of glass, her lips pursing in contempt. "That was quite the slip."

"I'm very dexterous."

"Certainly. My guardsmen can account for that."

Venara folded her arms, her fingers nearly cracking what remained of her wine glass. Of course she would bring up _that_ incident. It was most likely the reasons she had appeared at the villa, demanding an audience and loudly proclaiming that all "knife-ears" and "spellbinds" must have their weapons confiscated during their time in Halamshiral. Venara had once travelled to Val Royeaux to address the city elves at their alienage. The meeting had not gone according to plan, and the city guard had arrived. Under the impression that something dangerous was stirring, they had attacked the elves and Venara had been forced to kill some of them in defense. She had ended up in Dame Perrault's office, narrowly escaping punishment by Orlesian law thanks to Vivienne's timely interference.

Venara wasn't surprised that on the eve before the ball, she was, once again, entangled in political wordplay with the Commander of the City Guard.

"That matter was resolved months ago," Venara said.

"It is a matter that cannot _be_ resolved, Inquisitor," Mélisande replied smoothly. "Whenever you step foot in Val Royeaux, that matter _will_ rear its head."

"But we are not _in_ Val Royeaux," Venara said. "This is Halamshiral."

"Indeed," Mélisande answered. "But you are in the heart of the court of Orlais, on the threshold of the Grand Game itself. From Revered Mothers to the Council of Heralds, every man or woman of importance walks the halls of the Winter Palace tonight. The court _is_ Orlais. The court _is_ Val Royeaux. I am merely doing my duty, you understand—"

"I am the guest of Grand Duke Gaspard," Venara interrupt. "You have no right to speak to me as such."

Mélisande snorted with laughter. "Oh please," she said. "Inquisitor, I know as well as anyone the derision with which you regard him. His opinion of elves is well known. Frankly, I'm surprised you lowered your convictions enough to allow yourself to appear on the arm of a raging chauvinist."

"Believe me," Venara countered, "my convictions remain where they are. I wouldn't degrade myself by accepting Gaspard's invitation or by allowing _you_ this audience without reason."

Mélisande's lips drew into such a thin line, they almost disappeared. "You would rank me the same as Gaspard?" she said, her voice low.

"Gaspard, Celene," Venara said, shrugging as she fingered the glass shard in her hand. "The court of Orlais beats the same blood, no matter who sits at its heart. The only reason I am here is to ensure the nation does not fall to its enemies while Corypheus is a threat. So play your games, Dame Perrault. None of it matters. I am beyond them."

"No one is beyond them," Mélisande snapped derisively. "No one on this _earth_ can be. The fate of Orlais is the fate of all—"

"And _I_ am the one to decide that fate," Venara interrupted, her voice cold as ice. "I am the Inquisitor. Do not forget it." She let the shard drop from her hand as she walked towards Mélisande, her shoes crunching on the glass strewn between them. For a moment, though she was much smaller and leaner than the aristocrat before her, Venara carried herself like a giant. "Your concerns have been heard, madame. With the threat to the Empress imposed by Corypheus, my companions and I _will_ have permission to enter the Winter Palace with our weapons. This will not be contested."

A subtle green glow encompassed Venara's hand, summoned as if on command. Mélisande flinched, her eyes flickering from the mark and away.

"Unless, of course, you think your men are equipped to deal with such an assassin," Venara continued. "Have they had much experience protecting innocent lives against Venatori mages or templars enhanced with red-lyrium?"

Mélisande paused, her feet rooted to the floor. "No."

"I thought so," Venara said. "This conversation is over. Get out."

Mélisande nodded abruptly. She spun on a hell and marched towards the door, back held straight.

"Oh, and one more thing," Venara called. _"Never_ address me as a knife-ear or spellbinder _ever_ again."

Mélisande disappeared through the door without a word.

Venara sighed, releasing the tension that had been building within her throughout the encounter. She looked at the mess on the floor, her shoulders slumping.

"Josephine's going to kill me," she murmured.

"I believe I can talk her out of it," a voice said smoothly from the doorway. "Provided you don't give me a reason not to."

Venara looked up and saw Vivienne enter, her sliver skirts rustling around her as she moved.

"I must admit, I am impressed," she said. "I heard every word. That was admirably handled—for you, that is."

Venara shook her head. "Are you incapable of giving anything but a backhanded compliment, Vivienne?" she asked wearily.

"Only when I'm not dealing with amateurs who must learn their lessons quickly and harshly," Vivienne replied. Her eyes scanned the broken glass across the floor. She clicked her tongue in disapproval. "At least there was only one accident this time," she sighed.

"You're lucky I didn't throw it at her," Venara grunted.

"Yet another thing we must work on," Vivienne said. "My dear, you simply cannot take your anger out on inanimate objects whenever it pleases you. Not only did you waste a perfectly good glass of wine, it made you look horrifically… messy. People will gossip."

"Should I take it out on _animate_ objects, then?" Venara snapped. "Would you prefer that I froze her in ice?"

"No," Vivienne said. "That would bring disaster."

"You froze that marquis to teach him a lesson."

Vivienne scoffed. "He was a pig and a disgraced one at that," she said. "And I am not you, and you are not me. Despite your position, we have different standings amongst the court, my dear. We will be fortunate if no one mistakes you for a serving girl tomorrow night."

She leaned forward and patted Venara on the cheek.

"Be proud of yourself, darling," she said. "You aren't nearly as hopeless as you were when I met you."


	11. A Morning in Toulon

**A Morning in Toulon**

The town was called Toulon.

It sat tucked away in a little cove on the Waking Sea, several hundred leagues south-west of Val Royeaux. With the civil war ended and Corypheus' forces retreating from Orlesian soil, the Orlesian countryside was on its way to recovery, slowly becoming safer for common folk to traverse.

Venara would probably never be called "common" again, but she enjoyed basking in anonymity when she could. With the political climate and pressure from Corypheus' forces weakening, she had a moment to breathe. A week ago, she and Solas had slipped away from Skyhold, taking their horses to Jader, where they caught a ship and set sail for a quieter part of the country on an unexpected, but very welcome, holiday.

Toulon's port was small, filled with small-time traders and fishermen. The occasional representative of the Merchant's Guild came through, but for the most part, Toulon escaped the notice the rich and powerful. It had even remarkably caught little of the civil war, aside from rumours and hushed whispers. It almost possible to believe that Corypheus and the Grand Game had ceased to exist.

They took a room in the only inn. It was small and plain, but its floors were clean swept, its hearths were warm and the food was sumptuous. The innkeeper, Marie, was a matronly, business-like woman with strong arms, red hair and a kind smile, who barely spoke a word of King's Tongue. Despite this, she insisted on speaking to them in common (for the practice, Venara would later find out) and doted on her guests, never once remarking on their elven heritage. She took one look at Venara's scarred face, murmuring _"Ma pauvre enfant",_ and immediately set about making her feel at home, providing her with a bath, a hot meal and a steaming mug of something she called _chocolat chaud._

(Venara was very grateful it wasn't tea. Solas seemed to like it.)

The first morning after their arrival, Venara and Solas were sitting downstairs in the large, bright common room. The inn was mostly empty, save for a few farmers who had come into town for an afternoon off. Venara had chosen a seat by the window, where she could gaze out at the passing street and glimpse the ocean beyond. Vines curled around the window ledged and flowers bloomed beyond. Every house and building on the street was painting with bright colours and decorated with carefully cultivated flowers. Josephine would call it quaint, but Venara thought it was perfect. It was a side of Orlais she had never seen before and she much preferred it to the zealous richness of Val Royeaux.

Venara hummed to herself as she leaned against the window, toying with a lock of loose, curly hair. The warm smell of baking bread wafting through from the kitchen. Venara breathed in deeply—it was such a soft, peaceful smell. She loved it.

 _I love everything about Toulon,_ she thought in a dreamy haze.

After a moment, she thought she heard Solas chuckle.

"What?" Venara asked.

"Nothing," he replied. "It's been a long time since I've seen you this… content."

She took in a breath, exhaling softly. "I am. I like it here, like the quiet. It's peaceful."

"If anyone deserves a moment such as this, it is you."

Venara tilted her head to the side, curling a strand of hair around her finger. "And not you?" she asked. "You've worked as hard as anyone to achieve victory, in any form. You deserve this, too."

He smiled softly, his blue-grey eyes looking away. "As you say, vhenan."

"Solas, what's wrong?" Venara turned away from the window and sat up straight. She reached out across the table, capturing his hand with her own. His hands were so much larger than hers, the long, strong fingers the completely opposite of her short, stubby ones. "You're being… distant."

His hand tightened around hers. "I am lost in thought, that is all. This place is conducive to contemplation, and there is much to think about."

"We came here to get away from that," Venara said, laughing softly. He was always contemplating one thing or another. Some habits were hard to break.

"Yes," he replied, "but some things cannot be forgotten, no matter how hard we try."

He let go of her hand.

"If you need to talk, you know you can tell me anything," Venara said.

"I know, Venara," he said. "Believe me, I know."

She smiled and decided to let it go for now. Whatever it was that had so captured his attention, he would come to her with it when he was ready.

He always did.

Venara sighed, turning back to the window, smiling as a line of children in bright colours tramped by, singing and shouting in excitement as they tugged on their caretaker's hand. She caught the smell of warm bread drifting towards her and moments later, Marie appeared, carrying a tray filled with freshly baked croissants and several slices of peasant's bread.

"For you," she said, her thick Orlesian accent gliding over the words as she set the tray down between them.

"Oh, Marie, thank you, but I can't—"

 _"For you,"_ Marie said, shaking her head insistently. _"Comment dites-vous…_ Newlyweds, ouais?"

Venara's eyebrows shot up. Solas laughed.

"Oh no, no," Venara said as Solas continued to chuckle, "we're not… We haven't been… _Nous ne sommes pas mariés."_

Marie's smile didn't fade. Instead, she laughed, placing a hand on her chest. _"Oh, pardonnez-moi, c'était ma faute. Vous êtes si,_ em…" She paused, trying to think of the words. "Happy," she said, finally. "You… em… brighten each other, yes?"

"Thank you," Venara said. "That's very nice of you to say."

Marie nodded and gestured towards the tray again before excusing herself. Venara reached for a croissant and gently pulled it apart. It was fresh and crumbling, but it tasted so soft and sweet, melting in her mouth. She glanced across the table at Solas, feeling every crumb that clung to her mouth.

He reached out and gently brushed them away.

Venara swallowed. "You should have one. They're really good."

"Have them all, if you wish," Solas said. "I'm content as I am."

"With what?" Venara asked, reaching for a second croissant.

"Being in this moment with you," he said, his eyes meeting hers.

Venara's hand hovered over the plate.

"Sweet talker."

Venara stood up and walking around the table to sit on his side. She threw herself down beside him and kissed him soundly. Then she grabbed a croissant and held it out to him.

"You really should have one," she said, leaning against his shoulder and wrapping her free hand around his.


	12. Sunlight

**Sunlight**

They could be anywhere they wanted, when they dreamed.

The Fade was infinite, its space simply waiting to be sculpted, transformed, _used._ He had taught her how to shape it, creating scenes from memories long gone or places that were wholly imaginary and could not exist in any other form.

Though the autumn afternoon was stormy and cold, and their bodies were huddled together for warmth, Venara and Solas' did not feel it. Their minds and spirits were elsewhere, traversing a landscape that they, together, had created.

The sun was bright—almost bright enough to block out the form of the Black City that loomed in the distance. There was nothing but clear azure sky above, unmarked by puffs or streaks of clouds. A great plain of tall, green grass stretched out before them, rolling down towards a winding river.

As soon as the plain had materialized, Venara let go of his hand and ran through the grass. Her fingertips brushed the tops as she raced towards the river, her heart soaring, her mind and spirit lighter than they ever could be in the physical realm.

He reached the river bank before she did, catching her, lifting her in the air. Her hair curled over one shoulder as she gazed at him, hands drifting across his cheeks and jaw, eyes bright and mischievous. She leaned down and kissed him, her lips pressed fiercely against his, her bliss encompassing them both. He gently lowered her, setting her on the ground, though she remained on tip-toe, one hand curled at the back of his neck, pulling him down towards her.

She lost her balance and fell, pulling him with her. She landed on her back, but as it was a dream, no hurt came to her, only laughter. They lay, side-by-side, on the grass by the river bank, the sunlight blaring down upon them, consumed by their own laughter. She props herself up on one elbow, her other hand brushing hair out of her face, her eyes seeking his. His hand catches hers, fingers tracing the scars on her cheeks and jaw.

She never removes them, though she could. Here, in the Fade, they are their idealized selves, they can be whatever they want to be, whatever they _need_ to be. They are both more themselves here than they can ever be in the physical realm, yet in some ways they are not. There are some things that come more easily in the comfort of the Fade, where truths are both real and not real. But she always makes herself as she is. She knows she is no great beauty, but she is who she is. To change any one of her features would be to change herself. There are parts of her she can never give up or trade away, even if they are tied to unimaginable pain. Just as her vallaslin are the only reminder she has of her clan, her scars are her reminder of what she has endured.

And she knows he loves her for what she is. There is no need to pretend to be something else.

For her, at least.

He draws her to him, kissing her again, this time much deeper, much more fervent. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, settling comfortably into his lap, her legs hooked around his waist. She pulls her tunic free and then his own, desiring that feeling of her skin against his as she kisses him again. His hands are warm against her body, the familiarity of his touch igniting dual feelings of comfort and passion. She is safe within his embrace.

The sunlight blazes against her bare back, the soft sound of the river's flowing water rushes through her ears. She feels his breath against her neck as he buries his head in her shoulder, fingers threaded through her hair. She pushes him over, and they fall into the grass, tangled together. All of her senses are alight, intensified by the beautiful dreamland they created, just for them.

This is a moment that could last forever.

This is a moment from which she would happily never wake.


	13. This Fear Shall Never Be

**This Fear Shall Never Be**

Her hair was unremarkable.

Not curly or voluminous enough to be defined as wild and interesting, nor silken and smooth enough to be beautiful by traditional standards (traditional meaning human—meaning, usually, Orlesian). Its dark brown colour was rich, but common. It tangled too easily, was a bother to care for, and typically sat with half of it pulled back in an assortment of plaits and braids, for practicality's sake.

She usually thought little about her hair.

That was not the case today.

Venara sat in the burnished brass tub, her arms locked around her knees, lukewarm water lapping at her sides. It had once been steaming hot, but it had cooled in the hour or so she had been sitting there, unmoving, eyes staring blankly ahead at the fire crackling in its hearth. The water carried the slightest pinkish tinge from where it had come in contact with the blood splattered across her body. And her hair…

Her hair was a snarled mess, soaked and matted with blood and other fluids she dare not think about lest she vomit.

Most of the blood was not her own. Physically, she was unscathed. The assassin who had been torn in two by her spell was not.

"Venara."

Solas stood at the top of the stairs, having entered her chambers through the door below moments before. She hadn't heard him open the door, he was just _there—_ and she had felt the calming influence of his presence immediately.

Venara's arms tightened around her knees. "My hair," she murmured.

"I know."

"My hair…" A hand drifted to touch a loose braid, but jerked away as it came in contact with the knotted, sticky mess.

"I know." Solas knelt at the edge of the tub and gently enclosed her hand with his. "What can I do?"

Venara glanced at him, jaw set, eyes hard as flint. "Get rid of it."

And so she sat in the tub, arms still wrapped around herself, the hollowness that had followed the assassin's death threatening to engulf her. She gripped Solas' hand fiercely, even as he moved about her. He reheated the stone cold bath water with a gesture and picked up a cloth, wetting it and running it gently over her arms, chest and face, scrubbing away the blood that was stuck to her. The cloth was rough and itchy, but it did its job. As the blood washed away, her golden vallaslin emerged, the tattoos running from her face to her chest, arms and legs in elegant, delicate patterns.

Maybe someday she could feel like herself again…

Instead of the monster she had become.

"There is no shame in your actions," Solas said quietly as he wiped blood off her forehead. "He was sent to kill you. You protected yourself."

"I didn't just protect myself," Venara said hoarsely, eyes still boring into the flickering flames beyond. "I _obliterated_ him."

"Your magic had… unexpected results, yes."

"Unexpected results?" Venara cried. She turned around with a surprising force. Solas dropped the cloth. It splashed into the stained water and sunk to the bottom. "You weren't there. You didn't see what I—" She stopped abruptly, shoulders sinking. "I killed him with a thought. It was that simple, and—and then there was nothing _left_ of him but… And he…" She paused, taking a trembling breath. Beneath the water, her left hand—her _marked_ hand—clenched into a fist. "There are some powers no mage should have."

"There are some powers—"

"The mark is turning me into something I never wanted to be," Venara said, seizing Solas' hand so tightly her fingernails dug into his skin. "And it terrifies me."

Solas clasped a hand to the side of her face, his eyes finding hers. "Then you stay on your path and you do not stray," he said, softly but seriously. "Only at the end will you find the peace you seek."

Venara nodded. She plunged a hand into the water and retrieved the cloth. As she wiped her brow and the back of her neck, she indulged in the feeling of being scrubbed clean—it was surprisingly soothing. The she reached back and began tugging at the mess of tangled braids and loose hair at the nape of her neck.

Solas' hands closed around hers. She let out a sigh and let her hands fall back into the water. She closed her eyes as he worked at her hair, long fingers pulling at the plaits, unbraiding them one by one, taking the time to comb out the matts and tangles without causing her pain. She leaned back with a trembling breath and let the water flow over her, soaking her head. Her ears filled with water and she heard nothing but the buzz of being beneath the surface as Solas' fingers ran through her hair, washing away the final vestiges of Venara's attacker and the memory of what her spell had done to him.

When Venara finally stepped out of the tub—skin pruned, but clean—and wrapped herself in a robe, she began to feel like herself again.

At any rate, she began to feel.

She and Solas sat before the fire, his arm around her shoulders and her head against his chest. They said nothing, for there was nothing more that needed to be said.

They remained there until the fire burned to embers.


	14. The Oak Tree

**The Oak Tree**

The dream had waken her an hour before dawn.

For once it had been a normal dream, not a nightmare dripping with horrors, nor a more innocent walk through ancient memories. It was just a dream, more akin to what non-mages experienced when they closed their eyes and slept.

But perhaps some spirits had been at play, for though the images had faded from her memory, she awoke with an overwhelming, compelling desire to resolve something she had been avoiding for weeks. She rolled out of bed, careful not to disturb Solas in his sleep, dressed quickly and descended the stairs to Skyhold's garden, bringing with her a small pouch.

Once she reached the garden, she found an suitable spot. There were already flowers planted there, so she found the gardener's tools and set about moving them, as carefully as she could. She didn't want to kill anything someone else had worked hard to nurture.

She worked in the dark, guided only by moonlight and her elven eyes. Once the patch was cleared, she made a depression in the soil and opened the pouch. In it lay three seeds, taken from the great oak that marked her clan's final home and resting place. She held the seeds in her hand and sat back on her heels, the long grass tickling her bare feet and ankles. She stared at the seeds. Was Skyhold truly the place where she wanted to plant the last remembrance of her clan?

A hand touched her shoulder.

"If Skyhold is what you choose," Solas said, "then Skyhold will care for it."

Venara reached up and squeezed his hand with dirt-stained fingers. "As it cares for us all," she murmured. She glanced up at him. "Their memories deserve a home, not that blackened cesspool we left behind in Wycome."

Solas knelt beside her, his hand now a gentle touch on her back. "This grief is not something that can ever fade," he said quietly. "Nor should it. It is a part of you, as much as the scars on your cheek or the magic you wield. But perhaps it is time to let it become something else, something that will make you stronger and carries you through whatever challenges you face next."

Venara closed her hands around the seeds. Behind Solas and the castle walls, golden light began to stream across the sky. The sun was rising.

"Thank you." She kissing him softly. Then she placed one of the seeds in Skyhold's rich soil and carefully covered it. She stood back, brushing the dirt off her palms before she slipped her hand into Solas'. "There," she said, with a note of finality.

"Not quite," he said.

Solas extended his free hand, a warm green light—so very different from the green light of the anchor—wrapping around it. He murmured something in elven, then gestured. The light seeped into the earth where Venara had planted the seed. Moments later, with a strange cracking sound, an oak sapling shot up from the earth. The first rays of sunlight shone across the garden, illuminating the new sapling in its first minutes of life.

Venara let go of Solas' hand and stepped towards the tree. She rested a hand against its smooth bark and looked up at the rich green leaves that had sprouted from its spindly branches.

"I will remember you," she murmured.


	15. Battle-Hardened

**A/N:** This piece was inspired by some lovely artwork of Venara and Solas by hansaera on tumblr.

* * *

 **Battle-Hardened**

The day was hot, the ground dry and stale. Under a pale, cloudless sky, the sun's heat beat down relentlessly as it rose towards its midday peak. The wind raged in gusts, blowing dust and sand without mercy, tearing harshly at anything within its grasp.

In the parched valley below, a bloody battle raged.

From her position high above, Venara saw the flash of steel and bursts of magic as Inquisition soldiers clashed with Venatori soldiers. Some days ago, a camp had been discovered just west of Val Firmin. Her advisors were uncertain what they were doing there or what scheme Corypheus intended to use them for. But their presence this close to the Orlesian border was a concern; with the civil war still tearing through the country like wildfire, Orlais was exposed. If they suffered an attack from the west, they would not be able to defend against it. Even though the demon army had been defeated at Adamant, it had only been one piece on the chessboard. Corypheus could still dismantle Orlais with a single blow. He didn't need demons to accomplish it, he needed an opening.

Ragged cries echoed through the valley.

Blood splashed on the sand.

Venara's expression turned to steel. She and Solas had been waylaid, turned off-course by a Fade rift and had arrived after the battle had begun. They had crested the hill to see the valley littered with the dead and dying. Wounded soldiers clawed their way through dust and dirt towards safety, many collapsing from exhaustion in the sand.

Those who fell did not rise again.

Cold sweat trickled down Venara's back as she watched the savagery below, sticking the dark blue leather of her Dalish garb to her back. The Venatori swarmed the Inquisition soldiers, cutting them down with steel and magic, no mercy in their actions. Corypheus did not take prisoners.

 _If only I had arrived sooner…_

How many of her soldiers could she have protected? How many lives would not have been lost?

Solas placed a hand on her shoulder.

"This is a massacre," Venara murmured.

"This is war," Solas said. "Despite our victories, the bloodshed will continue until our enemy is defeated."

Venara gripped her staff tight. Her palms were slick with sweat and it was slipping in her grasp. "Then we will defeat them," she said. "Again and again until Corypheus has nothing left to throw at us. No more cults, no more agents, no more tricks." She frowned, her eyes narrowing. "This isn't a battle we can win today. They have more troops than you or I can take. The best we can do is give our soldiers the chance to retreat."

The wind gusted, sweeping a cloud of sand and dirt over the crest of the hill. She raised a hand to protect her face from the blowing dust. The wind tore at her hair, blowing the long, plaited locks over her shoulders.

"I assume you have a plan?" Solas said as the cloud cleared. "One that doesn't involve charging into battle and hoping for the best?"

Venara spat out dust. Her throat and mouth were terribly dry. "We'll figure it out as we go." She glanced up at Solas and smiled. "That's the way it usually works, isn't it?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Fortunately, I have some very good people watching my back."

She turned back to the battlefield, her muscles tensed, a spell half-formed in her mind. Violet light swirled around her arm, the storm magic building with every beat of her heart. Far away, she saw a cluster of Venatori mages working a massive spell that swept the valley to and fro with a firestorm. They had encased themselves in a protective barrier to prevent anyone from interrupting their spell-casting. If Venara used enough magic force, she could break through it and take them out. She could give her soldiers time to retreat.

"Can your spells hold back magic that raw?" she asked, nodding towards the mages, eyes following the course of their magical storm.

"Not for long," Solas said, pulling his staff along the shifting sands to rest its point in front of him. He was already preparing the protective magic he would need to keep them safe when they threw themselves into battle. "But long enough," he added severely.

Venara nodded.

They stood, back to back, caught in a moment of stillness. The ball of storm magic flickered between Venara's fingertips, sparking along her fingertips, heightening her senses. The sand burned beneath her bare feet, sticky sweat dripping from her brow as the sun's heat searched her face. Shouts and cries rang in ears, loud and thundering. The acrid tang of fire, magic and blood filled her nose as the firestorm swept, once again, across the valley, burning and consuming.

She felt Solas' comforting presence at her side, her back pressed against his. Though her towered over her, she never felt diminished at his side. They had faced many battles together, and they would face more—she at the forefront, wielding the offensive magic that came to her as naturally as breathing, and he protecting her, shielding them both with impenetrable spells that turned away blades and stopped arrows.

They were two halves of the same whole, two elves, two mages, brought together by impossible circumstances and made stronger for it.

"Let's go," Venara said, and they descended into the valley, sliding through the sand in a whirl of magic and grace.


End file.
